Masquerade
by Day Met the Night
Summary: "When no one knows who you are, you don't have to worry about being caught." "And what would you be caught for?" "Beguiling the heir to the Malfoy fortune." A one night stand with a masked gypsy at a Halloween Masquerade leaves Draco wanting more. But what happens when the girl behind the mask is someone he never would have expected? Halloween Fic. Dramione.
1. Burning Glances

**Masquerade  
**

_"Sometimes masquerades are more entertaining than reality. Sometimes they're safer. That's why we have these parties, isn't it? To be entertained? And to feel safe? When no one knows who you are, you don't have to worry about being caught." "And what would you be caught for?" "Beguiling the heir to the Malfoy fortune." A one night stand with a masked gypsy at a Halloween Masquerade leaves Draco wanting more. But what happens when the girl behind the mask is someone he never would have expected?_

**Warnings:** Explicit language, explicit sexual situations, alcohol consumption

* * *

**One**

"Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads."  
"Masquerade", Andrew Lloyd Webber,_ Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

**The Malfoys** had simply outdone themselves that evening; everyone said so as they arrived to the Masquerade and beheld the long, tall ball room in which the party took place, gasping in awe of the soaring three-story cathedral ceiling and marble floors. Candles hovered overhead and chandeliers clanked into each other every once in a while as they revolved slowly in the empty air above the guests. Cloaked tables sprawled out at the edges of the ballroom, each housing their own array of Halloween-themed treats. House elves that served food were dressed in clean, orange towels (and some even in orange scarfs, socks and jumpers; though whether they were at the receiving and of a publicity stunt or a true show of the Malfoy's restored honour was widely debated), Jack-o-Lanterns lined the edges of the dance floor, and black drapes hung over the windows that shot down the side of the west wall.

The sky was the colour of dreams that night—a rich, smoky blue that unrolled across the sky like silk cloth. Thousands of small holes seemed to have been punched into the fabric, letting the light of the stars shine through in pinpricks. The air outside was cool and crisp, with the faint whisperings of winter riding on the breeze, and the cloaks of all the witches and wizards that attended the Masquerade were clasped tight against the chill.

Some arrived on broom, others through apparation, and a few who were truly in character arrived on horseback, or in majestic drawn carriages, or perhaps in boats that were pushed like gondolas along the small river that bordered the east side of Malfoy Manor. Draco Malfoy himself, though, simply walked out of his bedroom and descended the grand staircase that strolled elegantly down to the ball room.

Though he had followed the traditions of the Masquerade, donning a mask and costume so as to be nearly unrecognisable, to _not _recognise the young Malfoy would have been near impossible, for his white-blond hair shone whiter than usual under the glare of the candlelight, and his posture and mannerisms gave him away easily. He descended the steps in a slow, unaffected manner that reeked of poise and power, and his grey eyes were partially hidden between the slight, lazy, and arrogant droop of his eyelids. The guests of the Masquerade (all wearing their own glittering masks and elaborate costumes), acknowledged him politely as he passed, giving him small, respectful greetings or (in a few brazen females' cases) suggestive smiles. He dismissed them all.

Sweet Salazar, how he hated this. The Masquerade was too reminiscent of the galas and balls his parents were infamous for back in what his mind had dubbed "the good days"; however, the title was a vast overstatement, but deserving, considering the most recent era of his life. Though tonight this Masquerade was organised by the Ministry (his parents had offered to host as a sign of friendship and faith since their... unfortunate discretions during the war), the expensive decorations and cutlery sent echoes of the tedious, tiring parties from his youth rebounding inside Draco's skull. He had already made up his mind to say as little as possible over the course of the night, social niceties be damned.

Instead, he surveyed the attendees and all of their costumes, some better-hidden than others. Many were dressed as muggles (dresses from the Victorian Era, suits and fedoras from 1920s America, celebrities and the like), while others dressed as famous witches and wizards of the ages, and some were even disguised as magical creatures and beasts. He spotted a Weasley (though Draco would never have been able to tell which one), face hidden beneath a sparkling half-mask with a woman on his arm that Draco suspected to be Hermione Granger, though her usually-wild curls had been tamed into a demure, attractive coif. And perhaps that was Theo Nott, dancing toward the centre of the room with an unknown witch, and dressed as a prince right out of a muggle fairytale, complete with the shining crown and sash scaling down his torso. And there was Minister himself, made obvious by the tall, domineering figure and dark-chocolate-coloured skin, speaking to a man and swathed in the white fabric of an Ancient Roman Senator.

"See anyone you recognise?"

Draco turned around, immediately becoming annoyed at not having noticed the presence behind him. But he knew the voice instantly—the pretty drawl of Astoria Greengrass, a blonde who had apparently taken a liking to Draco since speaking to him at the Ministry a few times when their paths had crossed. Perhaps he would like her, as well, in time—he admired her physical appearance and the fact that she chose to work after she left school, instead of living on her parents' fortune.

"A few, here and there," Draco answered, eyes skimming down Astoria's costume, a gleaming masterpiece of flowing fabrics and ruffles from an earlier century. He considered asking her to dance (no doubt his parents would be overjoyed to see them on the dance floor together), but at the last minute he rejected the idea. Astoria was an adequate match, not an exhilarating one. No use leading her on if their parents decided they weren't so suitable after all. Perhaps they would just give up, in time; the Malfoy heir was nearing twenty-two, his age unheard of in the realm of pure-blood bachelors and betrothed.

Astoria continued on the conversation, although Draco would have sworn she'd read his mind, or at the very least, his expression. A mild-mannered girl, Astoria was, unlike other Slytherin witches he knew (ahem, _Pansy_, ahem ahem), and much more agreeable because of it.

"It's sort of entertaining, the couples that think they can get away with their dates simply because the pull on a paper mask." She gestured toward the Weasley Draco had noticed earlier. "That's Ron Weasley," she said, voice lowering considerably, and Draco realised she was gossiping to him. "Some think that's Hermione Granger there on his arm, but it's not. It's Lavender Brown."

He was surprised. Brown? The flirtatious, bubbly Gryffindor from their year who had barely the amount of brains that Crabbe and Goyle had had put together?

"And Granger _is _coming," Astoria continued, "but alone, without any date at all. No one has seen her yet, and everyone I've talked to doesn't think she's even arrived yet."

Rumours were never Draco's greatest subject of interest, even though most Slytherins thrived on gossip, so he simply nodded politely. A somewhat intriguing tidbit of information, Astoria had shared with him, but nothing especially life-ruining. As a Slytherin, one learned to pick out the most delicious of all the lies and half-truths swimming from ear to ear, and Draco knew that this hardly passed for scandalous.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" The blond looked up to the front of the room, where his mother and father stood on the landing of the grand staircase, the Minister on his father's left side. Narcissa had spoken, her saccharine yet strong voice swooping over the ball room without any charms at all. "I would like to wish you all a magnificent All Hallows Eve, and thank you all for attending tonight's Masquerade. We hope you are enjoying the evening insofar. And now, for a little entertainment!"

The front doors, which had been shut tight for the past few hours, burst open with a dramatic bang. All heads swivelled toward the dark double doors.

A parade of revellers and minstrels poured into the ballroom, playing instruments from every time period and region of the world (Snare drums, bongos, pan flutes, clarinets, accordions, guitars, banjos, maracas, lyres, mandolins), all in brilliant, shining costumes made of the most vibrantly-coloured of fabrics. African tribal masks, Chinese monkeys and dragons, the iconic Super-hero figure-eights, and glittering _Carnevale _masks were all tied onto the faces of the troubadours, dancers and instrumentalists that strolled through the main doors and weaved in and out of the guests.

There was a collective gasp of surprise and delight as the procession wound about the room, musicians serenading their audience as another round of strolling players made their way into the ball room—bare-chested fire-eaters projecting great jets of flame from between their lips; acrobats whirling and twirling and flipping over the heads of guests and into the air; jugglers with a dozen knives cycling above their heads and some with torches blazing from hand to hand; animal tamers leading in tigers and hippogriffs who strode into the ballroom, free of any ropes or chains anchoring them to their masters.

And finally—a court jester and a gypsy, the jester dancing around the gypsy with a grinning mask hiding his face and the bells of his hat jingling merrily. Guests laughed as a he passed by, performing acrobatics and pulling glitter out of thin air, but jaws dropped and air jammed in throats as they caught sight of the gypsy.

While the court jester was the picture of good fun and innocence, this gypsy was all darkness and sin, golden-brown skin draped in sashes of black and red that were placed strategically to hide certain areas, yet showing more skin than was proper. Not that any of the male guests were complaining; even Draco.

Her mask (black with gold and red designs swirling near her eyes) covered her entire face, save for her eyes and pouty, blood-red lips that screamed _kiss me_, and curls upon curls of dark hair bounced and shivered with each hypnotising move she made.

Draco found himself captivated by the gypsy as she danced her way into the ball room, hips swaying rhythmically and feet moving with impossible agility. She wielded the tambourine in her hands like a weapon, the tiny cymbals running down the rim jangling in time with the music of the other minstrels, calling even more attention to herself. Draco could not tear his eyes from her, and what felt like liquid flame pooled in the tips of his fingers and at the pit of his stomach.

The strolling players dispersed among the crowd, still playing the most exhilarating melody Draco had ever heard, while their audience kept their eyes solely on the gypsy girl.

It took the former-Slytherin much too long to realise that she was making her way towards _him_, but when he did, Draco's mouth became suddenly dry, and his forehead mysteriously wet. _Am I sweating?_ he found himself thinking. _How utterly pathetic._

It felt as if he was standing in the middle of a stage, a glower of a spotlight glancing off his shoulders, as the gypsy slunk closer and closer to him. At some point in time (Draco would never remember exactly when), Astoria had disappeared from his side, leaving him alone with the gypsy and surrounded by masked guests, eyes peering through holes in each mask.

The music pitched forward in a dramatic crescendo, pressing against the walls of the ball room and climbing toward the ceiling, although Draco hardly noticed. His eyes had found the gypsy's, which were the lightest brown he had ever seen, flecked with yellow and gold and traced with kohl. He found himself bewildered as she latched onto him, pressing her body sensuously against his and running her hands up his sides and through his hair. Arousal ran like wildfire through his veins and short straight to his groin, and Draco thanked the stars for robes, or else his erection would have been painfully obvious.

She grinned roguishly, her ruby-hued lips parted to reveal dazzling white teeth, her eyes luminous through the holes of her mask, as she continued to "dance" with him, various parts of her anatomy brushing various parts of his in a decidedly erotic fashion, and Draco could do nothing but stand as frozen as an idiot, all thought vanished from his head and all blood relocated to his groin.

All too soon, though, the music was dropping, and she was walking away, dancing through the crowd that was soundlessly making way for her, and bowing low to Lucius, Narcissa, and Kingsley, who were still standing at the foot of the stairs.

"My friends and I thank you for letting us participate in such a lovely Masquerade," she said, her voice as clear as angel wings and as smooth as devils' horns. "You are quite the wonderful hosts."

"Thank you for joining us," Narcissa said graciously. "Welcome to our home. Please, stay and enjoy the night. Your friends have performed beautifully." The gypsy smiled and bowed again, turning toward the side door with the rest of the minstrels all trailing behind her. All the eyes in the room burned into her retreating figure, including Draco, who had just gathered enough of his wits to try and tamp down his erection.

There was a heavy silence as the last of the revellers—the Jester—walked through the door and shut it with a heavy _thud_ behind him. Many seconds passed before it was finally broken, shattered as the ball room chattered and buzzed at the entertainment.

"Draco Malfoy!"

Draco turned turned around to see Marcus Flint walking toward him, a glass of wine perched rather precariously in his hand. "You goddamn _lucky bastard_," Marcus said, slinging an arm around Draco and nearly spilling his drink over himself. "How come _you _always get the birds?" he mock-complained.

"I guess it's just the Malfoy charm," Draco replied, now able to form coherent sentences. "All-natural, you know, so there's no hope for you, I'm afraid," he said, faux-apologetically.

Marcus laughed. "What do you say, Malfoy? Give an old mate a chance at a fit bird?"

Even though Draco had never even shared a word with the gypsy, and so such a reaction was inexplicable and uncalled for, a monster of jealousy growled and bared its teeth, prowling behind his ribcage.

"How about the next one, Flint," he said, attempting to keep his tone light-hearted. Apparently it worked, because Marcus winked, already so drunk that it looked like a mild seizure.

"It's a deal then, Draco," the other former-Slytherin said, clapping him on the back before stumbling away. Draco shook his head, smiling faintly. Marcus had been a bit of a drinker back in school, too. Thank Merlin he was the happy sort of drunk.

"Mr Malfoy."

Draco turned around (for what seemed to be the umpteenth time that night), to find the source of the lovely voice that had called to him. His heart all but stopped as he saw that it was the _gypsy_ who had found him. Gone was the revealing costume she had worth earlier, replaced by a long, flowing dress of the same black and red she had worn earlier. The back was open, exposing more of her gorgeously tanned skin while making up for the high neckline, and part of her hair was pulled back into a thick braid, with rebellious curls falling about her face. She was smiling slightly, the corner of those beautiful lips tugged upward in an almost… apologetic fashion. He found himself pleasantly surprised.

"Would it be bothersome of me to request a dance?" she said politely, in a voice so soft and sweet, a complete contradiction of her suggestive dancing and revealing outfit she had worn just a few minutes ago.

"No, of course not," Draco said, even though he had told himself earlier that he would try and avoid dancing with anyone at all costs. Bruised toes or brazen propositions were usually the results of such dances, and he'd grown weary of them. But he ignored his promise to himself, taking her by the hand and waist and leading her to the centre of the ballroom floor. From there, he guided her into a simple waltz, one that she should be able to easily follow so they could carry a conversation or simply gaze into one another's eyes…

"You must forgive me for my… earlier error," she said, breaking him from his reverie joltingly. "I was only just informed that I'd made _you_, our generous host, part of the show, and I regret it if it made you uncomfortable."

Draco shrugged, attempting to make himself appear more nonchalant. "No worries, miss," he told her while hoping to Salazar that his face was not as red as a he imagined it to be. Even though it wouldn't matter much, given the mask, it was only a half-mask, and he had a longer face than most. The rouge of a blush made a rather harsh, unattractive contrast against his pale complexion. "It's all show, isn't it?"

"Sometimes I'd like to believe so, yes," she answered cryptically, but Draco chose not to question her more on the subject, for she seemed like the secretive type.

"You are a wonderful dancer," he complimented. "And I think most of my guests would agree."

She laughed. "We haven't even known each other for five minutes, Mr Malfoy, and you're already flirting with me. How delightful of you."

If he hadn't been blushing before, Draco certainly was now. "Flirting? What a childish term," he replied, trying to keep his expression unaffected. "I prefer something more refined. Like _beguiling_, or _enthralling_."

She laughed again, and damn if that wasn't a beautiful sound. Like Christmas bells and birdsong.

"Oh, Merlin, he has wit, too. In books, that is a sure sign I'm going to fall desperately in love with you in the next twenty four hours. Perhaps I'll even lose my left shoe."

Draco stared at her quizzically. The last part confused him.

"A muggle reference," she explained. "I suppose it wouldn't do to use much of those around you, considering—"

"Considering I'm a bigoted pure-blood supremist?" he finished, raising an eyebrow.

"Considering you haven't had all that much exposure to muggle fairy tales," she corrected, looked more amused than annoyed, which Draco was grateful for as he mentally slapped himself for being such a prick.

"You obviously think the best of people," he said. "I admire you for that."

"You don't have to try and _beguile_ me anymore," she told him, her voice light and teasing. "Remember, I'm already to fall in love with you in the next day or so."

"Oh, yes, right, how could I forget? Forgive me for my poor memory, miss," Draco said, laughter bubbling like champagne in his mouth.

"Honestly, Mr Malfoy," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I don't know what I'm to do with you."

"You can call me Draco," he told her. "If you'd like."

"But that wouldn't be fair," she replied. "You don't know either of my names, and now you're giving me two of yours."

"Why don't we make a trade, then?"

She shook her head. "I can't. Or else I would just take off the mask right now and do away with all of the mystery."

"So why don't you?"

"I have a secret identity," the gypsy replied, her brow jumping and her eyelids dropping momentarily to give a look of exaggerated mystery. "I've got to keep it all hushed up."

"Surely you can make an exception."

"No, no," she said. "You parents don't even know who I am. Lovely people, they are. Lovelier than I expected. And no, not just because they're pure-blooded supremists," she added with a wry smile.

Draco fought off of another blush. "I apologise for that careless comment."

"Such an apology is unnecessary, Mr Malfoy," she assured him. "I'm sure any other in my place would have thought it, though I regret the fact."

"Thank you, miss," Draco said. "You are too kind."

"No," she argued. "I'm simply logical. And I have a heart."

The blond smiled (an expression that took him by surprise), and blurted, "I think you are having much more success beguiling me than I am, you."

She laughed. "Oh, this really is turning out to be a wonderful night. It seems I have out-flirted Draco Malfoy!"

"Out-_beguiled_," he corrected, trying to keep smooth and sharp, and she chuckled again.

"Surely as some sort of consolation prize, a name is in order," Draco said. He wasn't quite sure where the curiosity was coming from, but his mind was begging him to find a name to match the girl with.

"Names are rather unimportant things, wouldn't you agree?" she asked. "The words and actions of a person do so much more to define them than a name."

"Well, I can't well call you _the gypsy_ all night long, now, can I?"

"My lack of name is part of my masquerade, Mr Malfoy," she replied through a chortle. "It's just another form of disguise, and what is a good story without a disguise?"

"But we aren't living a story," he argued. "This is reality, where not everyone needs a mask."

"Sometimes masquerades are more entertaining than reality. Sometimes they are safer. That's why we have these parties, isn't it? To be entertained? And to feel safer?"

"I don't quite catch your meaning," Draco said.

"When no one knows who you are, you don't have to worry about being caught."

"And what would _you_ be caught for?"

"Beguiling the heir to the Malfoy fortune," she replied with what Draco imagined to be quite the Slytherin Smirk.

* * *

**To Be Continued**

* * *

**A/N:**

Hi guys! I'd just like to start by giving a huge thank you to everyone who read "Eyes Open", and especially all **THIRTY** of you lovelies who reviewed, I can't believe so many people liked it that much! I posted it on H&V, guys, and guys, I nearly had a heart attack because both Dramione13 and RZZMG dropped a review! ASDFLKJADSFLKJ;LKJ Okay, moving away from that...

Currently, I have about five different one-shots hanging around my flashdrive, a hardcore angst/war WIP that I busted out about 15k words for but haven't worked on since picking up this story, Delicate, and three other chaptered fic ideas that have yet to get past page ten. I hope to finish them all at one point or another, so *crosses fingers*

I aim to update this fic less than once a week, and maybe even finish it before Halloween. That's not a promise, though, because unfortunately my life is sorta crazy right now and I'm probably going to fail one of my language exams this week because I couldn't resist working on this story. It's going to be a little ficlet, maybe 5 or 6 chappies, and I'm halfway through number four. Thanks to anyone who leaves a review/alerts/favourites already, you are all fantastic!

Happy early Halloween!  
~Gen


	2. Drink it In

**Two**

"Drink it in, drink it up, till you've drowned  
In the light, in the sound"  
"Masquerade", _Phantom of the Opera_, Andrew Lloyd Webber

* * *

**He really** hadn't meant to get that drunk. A few glasses of wine, perhaps two or three, was all he told himself he was going to drink. But after the third one he was still talking to the gypsy girl, and he found himself reaching for another glass, and another glass, and maybe another, smiling and laughing at the beautiful girl before him as she matched him wit for wit.

Draco knew why he'd expected differently. She was a gorgeous girl, making her living by dressing up in costume and dancing suggestively. Most would presume that she had no intellect whatsoever. But, on the contrary, Draco was pleased to find that this gypsy was intelligent, quick-witted, well-educated in politics, history, and literature, and a smashing conversationalist. So good, in fact, that he had been successful in keeping his eyes off her bewitching figure all the way until his fifth drink.

At that point in time, he had dragged her off to a corner of the room, where he spoke with her without interruption. Draco could spy his mother off in another corner of the room, entertaining her society friends while somehow finding the time to glance over toward him and glare, making it clear that he should be mingling and not _cavorting _with some gypsy girl all night.

Draco ignored her, though, even more determined than ever to keep the girl occupied. The last thing he wanted tonight was to see her leave the Manor on the arm of another man. He thought back to the comment she had made at the very beginning of the night. "_Oh, Merlin, he has wit, too. In books, that is a sure sign I'm going to fall desperately in love with you in the next twenty four hours._"

But somehow, it seemed like just the opposite was happening. While he most definitely was not falling in love with her (the idea of it, falling in love with someone so quickly and so suddenly was absolutely ridiculous to Draco), he could not deny the intense burning behind his ribcage that urged him to simply grab her by the arm and press his lips to hers (and a lot more, if he was being honest with himself).

This girl was a charming character indeed. Words brimming with cleverness rolled deliciously off her tongue, and she spoke to him as if he were a real person, not the stoic statue of a Malfoy Heir that people expected him to be. With every word that poured from her beautiful lips and with every sip of wine Draco drank, he found himself more and more entranced. And less inhibited.

It was just too much. Her voice, her body, the wine… the factors banded together and crashed about his mind, running circles into his skull and loosening his tongue.

It was around midnight when Draco found himself leaning toward her, placing a hand against the wall near her head and his lips less than an inch from her ear. He could smell her from here—like strawberries and vanilla, oh-so-delectable.

"You really do make it difficult for a weak man such as I to resist you, miss," he whispered in what his tipsy mind thought was sexy and seductive.

Apparently he was passable (or perhaps she had imbibed as much alcohol as she had), for she replied, "I would only think you weak if you were too afraid to make such a statement. Respect is key, of course, but I like a man who doesn't let inhibitions stop him from enjoying life."

Draco grinned. That was an invitation, he was sure of it. "Trust me when I say I have never done this before," he said softly, "But I would like it very much if you would stay here in the Manor tonight."

"As a house guest?" she asked innocently, and then laughed when she caught sight of Draco's startled expression, visible even from under the mask. "A joke," the gypsy explained reassuringly.

The blond nodded, relieved. "How do you feel about leaving right this second? I really do hate these things. If not for you, I would have left hours before," he disclosed honestly.

"I don't think I would have the heart or constitution to object," she replied, the corner of her red lips twitching into a smirk. And with that, Draco grabbed her hand (soft and warm as he laced her finger through his) and led her through the rest of the guests, who either did not recognise either of them under their costumes or were too busy to bother with them at all.

_Thank Merlin Mother refused press coverage,_ Draco was still clear-headed enough to think, _or else they would have had a field day with this. Now I suppose there is only gossip to contend with_, for _someone_ was bound to notice them, even if they made not a comment.

Draco slipped through the side doors, fingers still laced tightly with the gypsy's, and he climbed down a narrow set of steps that would lead them to the kitchen. The clanking and banging of pots and pans forced itself up the passageway, the house-elves still cooking and working while the Masquerade continued above them, and as he led them into the kitchen the gypsy asked, "How many work here?"

"Twenty-four still bound by choice, three paid," Draco drawled. "I could tell you all of their names if my head was screwed on a bit tighter," he added, and she seemed impressed with his answer.

"What did you expect?" he said, guiding her through the counters and sinks and ovens, all at elf-level, and the many elves that scurried from station to station. "Thousands of scrawny, sickly elves, struggling to stay on their feet?" Immediately Draco regretted the comment—just like the one he made about pure-blood supremacy, it was a rather rude assumption of her opinion of him.

"No, I suppose not. Not now," she answered, seemingly unoffended and sounding quite thoughtful.

Once they were out of the kitchen, Draco pulled her along many grand hallways until finally, they arrived at his door. At that point in time, the former-Slytherin had had much time to consider what was about to transpire in the next few minutes, and his libido was at an all-time high.

As soon as he closed the door behind them, Draco pushed her gently against it, covering nearly every inch of her body with his. His hands found her waist and his lips found her neck, which he kissed languorously, revelling in the feeling of his mouth pressed against her soft flesh. Her own hands slid up his chest and to his shoulders, knotting behind his head where her fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. And damn, if that wasn't turning him on.

"Draco…" she murmured, and his name sounded like a symphony sliding from between her lips. "The mask stays on. But anything else goes."

_Anything else goes_.

Instantly, his hands reached for the back of her neck, searching for some sort catch as his lips progressed to her jaw.

With a rush of triumph, his fingers caught onto a clasp, and he hastily undid it, tugging on the straps of the dress, pulling them off her shoulders.

Draco knew for a fact that there would be no bra, seeing as there was no extra set of straps coming from underneath the dress and her back had been bare, but nevertheless, there was an intense thrill as the top of the dress sunk to her waist and her breasts were bare before him. They were small and round, with rosy nipples that stood to attention in the relative cool of the room. Immediately Draco bent low, seizing one between his lips, and his cock strained against his trousers as the gypsy gasped, her grip on his neck tightening significantly.

"Oh, God," she moaned as he scraped his teeth over and swirled his tongue the hardening flesh. She began to tug on his robes, pulling them from his shoulders before he shrugged them off, her slender, deft fingers hurrying to unfasten the buttons of his dress shirt. She didn't bother to tear it off once she had unbuttoned it completely, instead opting to run her hands over his chest and torso and back as if she was starved for skin.

"Fuck," Draco muttered, the curse tumbling clumsily down her breast. "Fuck, that feels good." He aimed for her lips next, the hard material of the mask cool on his nose and cheek as his lips moved in what he hoped was a sensual way against her own. Her mouth was impossibly warm and wet, tasting of strawberries and the wine they had drunk over the course of the evening. To his surprise, the gypsy grabbed hold of his bottom lip between her teeth, nipping it playfully before clasping their mouths together once again.

Draco's hands had somehow ended back at her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, when she grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around, backing him against the door as she reached down to grab the waistband of his trousers. She tore viciously at the button, nearly ripping it apart before she got to the zip. And from there, the gypsy sank toward the floor and yanked his pants and trousers down to his knees in one tug.

A great pressure—one that he hadn't even been aware of—seemed to be released now that his cock was free, and Draco had hardly a moment to enjoy it before the smooth, chilly surface of the gypsy's mask was rubbing sensuously against his erection. He gasped loudly, stumbling back against the door (thank Salazar she had switched their positions, or else he would have been stumbling against thin air), and then reached over for the end of her braid, untying the scrap of lace holding it in place and then running his hands through her soft, smooth curls, twisting wildly as they escaped the plait.

Draco moaned, knotting his fingers through her tresses as the gypsy girl grabbed the base of his erection and placed a gentle, tender kiss against the head, slowly moving her lips down the side. For a frozen moment, Draco was afraid he was going to lose his load right then and there, but by some ridiculous amount of resolve, he held on, leaning his head against the door and his eyes squeezing shut.

"You have a lovely cock," she whispered against said cock, starting a fire somewhere beneath his stomach, a breeze of desire scattering it further about his body. "So beautiful."

And then she rose, stepping out of her dress and knickers and taking him by both hands, leading him to the bed. He was powerless to do anything but pull off of his own clothes and follow her, suddenly hypnotised by her gold-flecked eyes peeking out from underneath the black and red mask.

The gypsy laid back against the silk blankets, pulling him gently on top of her (perhaps sensing his lost awareness) so that he straddled her legs, a hand on pressed into the mattress either side of her shoulders. She reached, slowly, behind his head for the knot that tied the mask to his face. Almost tenderly, she untied it, lifting the mask off and setting it aside.

And then there was a long moment, more intense than Draco had ever known, during which she simply held his face in her hands and looked up at him. He stared in return, at the curve of her own mask (which he did not dare touch), at the red of her lips, at the shape of her eyes, which seemed to glow in the darkness of the room.

"I knew a man who looked like you," she said softly, her voice fluttering like a butterfly to his ear, as her thumb brushed back and forth over his cheek. "And he was beautiful, too. Oh, so beautiful. But he was a bastard. Tell me, Mr Malfoy, am I about to make love to a bastard?"

Draco had to concentrate very hard to shake his head. "No," he replied. "No."

"Delightful," the gypsy said, and pulled his head down to hers to kiss him once again.

He saw stars when she kissed him, constellations bright and whirling about his mind, and he was hardly conscious at all of her tongue stroking his and her body writhing beneath his. But Draco was brought back to the reality when warm fingers grabbed hold of his cock, alternating between brushing over the soft, rigid flesh and gripping it tight. He groaned at each pass of her hand, practically trembling under her touch, so much that he was worried he would fall on her. "Ah, fuck, Merlin, _fuck_…" he said, jabbering incoherently.

"Draco," she murmured, guiding his erection toward the warm flesh of her centre. "Please—"

He thrust into her, to the hilt, gasping at the blinding sensation of her hot, wet pussy clenched hard around his cock, revelling in the cry of pleasure that tore from between the gypsy's lips. For a long, drawn-out moment, time seemed to freeze, and all that existed in the world was the feeling of their bodies fused so intimately, and the beautiful sounds of their laboured breathing.

And then she rolled her hips, moaning as their pelvises knocked together and his cock moved in and out of her core. Draco took the reins then, slamming their hips together and pushing his cock deeper and deeper into her with every thrust. She was not a quiet lover, he learned, nor a docile one, as her fingernails scraped down his back and through his hair and over his nipples while loud groans and whimpers slunk, dark desperate, from between her lips. They were matched in that way. From the two other women he had ever slept with, Draco had been told he wasn't one to keep quiet.

A powerful pressure began building in the blond's lower abdomen and groin, and he basked in the pleasure that reared up in his body and threatened to fall like a tidal wave. He held on to it, for just enough time to say, _"I'm going to come_," and to see the gypsy nod, biting her lip, before he let it go, allowing it to pitch forward, crashing like a wave to a shore, powerful enough to take out whole cities. Somehow, someway, Draco continued to drive hard into her, over and over again until she screamed her own release, a noise that, at that moment, was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

Finally, Draco's limbs seemed to lose all their strength, and he fell on top of her, just managing catching himself by the elbows to stop himself from squashing her.

His head found her chest and he nuzzled his face into it, burying himself in her strawberry scent as his arms snuck under her and clasped around her tightly. The gypsy's fingers found his hair once again and stroked it, while her second hand ran up and down his spine. Though neither said a word, somehow the sound of _Thank you _lingered in the air.

Draco allowed his eyes to close, knowing he would not mind at all if he fell asleep with this gypsy girl, even though he knew this to be a one night stand, and morning-after's were hardly ever happy endings.

* * *

**A/N:**

I only looked over this thing once since I wrote it, so hopefully it looks alright *crosses fingers*. And apparently FIFTY FIVE PEOPLE alerted this story, oh my God you guys make me feel so loved XD Happy early Halloween and a HUGE thank you to my 9 beautiful reviewers and anyone who reviews for this chappie! ~Gen


	3. Breathing Lies

**Three**

"Masquerade! Seething shadows, breathing lies"  
"Masquerade", _Phantom of the Opera_, Andrew Lloyd Webber

* * *

**The morning** fell through the crack in the curtains, sunlight glancing down onto the bed and illuminating the pair that lay curled up and intertwined beneath the blankets. Draco's arm was thrown over the gypsy girl's waist and his face pressed against the side of her neck. He awoke to the sweet scent of her skin, the warmth of her body against his, and the comforting rustle of her steady breathing. A strange emotion blossomed beneath his ribcage, a sort of affection for the witch beside him.

Slowly and gently, so as not to wake her, Draco drew away, taking the chance to observe her in daylight. Her skin nearly glowed under the tender gaze of the sun, and her curls ambled lazily from her head, the dark tresses more tangled and slightly frizzier than they had been the night before. Birthmarks and freckles he had missed in the dark became obvious. A spot on her hip and on her thigh, a colony of freckles sprinkled on her shoulders, and a perfectly circular patch of grey right between her right breast and collar bone. She was absolutely beautiful, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to see her face.

_What's stopping me?_ he wondered. _Would I be able to do it? Just lift the mask a centimetre from her face, just to grab a hint at what lies underneath?_

Before his resolve faded, Draco reached toward her face, hooking his fingernail under the rigid material of the mask. He then pulled it upward, slowly, until he could see the slightest—

Suddenly, his wrist was caught in a surprisingly strong grip and he was flipped onto his back, the gypsy girl straddling him and leaning down to meet his eye. "And I had such faith in you, Mr Malfoy," she said, shaking her head disappointedly, but looking more amused and slightly nervous than angry.

"I… I—" Draco stuttered helplessly (Goddammit, he hated it when he was speechless, and hardly ever happened), but she didn't give him the chance to reply.

"I don't blame you, of course. I would have tried it too, if our roles were reversed," she said, "But we had such a splendid time last night. It's a shame we have to end it on such a note." And then she crawled off of him, climbing off the bed and reaching for her dress.

Draco sat up, following her off the bed and reaching for his trousers, which had been flung halfway across the room. "Please, miss, stay for breakfast, or at least take a shower, if you'd like—"

"Thank you, but that's quite alright," she said, pulling on her knickers and sliding into the dress. "Fasten it for me, would you?"

Draco buttoned his slacks and leaned forward, pushing her hair off her back and clasping the catch near the nape of her neck. For some reason, his fingers were trembling.

"I insist, though," he continued. "The house should be clear of all guests by now, and it would really be marvelous to keep your company a little while longer."

"I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy, I really would love to—"

"Stay, then."

She turned around and took his hands in hers. Her palms were warm and soft and dry. "I can't. I've rather important things to accomplish today, and I really ought to have been gone by now, anyway. Last night was… _magical_," she said. "And I really wish things could have been different." Only later would he question her meaning on this—at that moment he was too focussed on convincing her to stay. "I'm sure we'll see each other again _very _soon, Mr Malfoy. Good-bye."

The gypsy stood up on tiptoes and kissed him square on the mouth before whirling around and walking straight out the door, leaving Draco behind feeling dumbstruck. Precious seconds passed before the blond could get a grip on himself, and at that time all sign of her had disappeared, except for the unmade bed, the lingering scent of strawberries and wine, and the memories that played like music in his head.

O

**Draco would** never be sure who exactly spilled the story, nor would he ever be too interested in finding the culprit. But he was, however, rather piqued to see the magazine cover that was slapped down on his desk that morning by one Blaise Zabini.

_DRACO MALFOY: DESPERATELY IN LOVE OR TROUBLE CHILD WAITING TO HAPPEN? _was the headline stamped across every copy of _Witch Weekly _that morning, and the photograph underneath was his graduation photo from Hogwarts, the Draco in the picture smirking and winking in a very un-Draco-like manner.

"You know, for a Slytherin, I would have thought you'd be much more discreet about it," Blaise said. "I mean, you practically dragged her through every high-society wizarding socialite in the whole of Great Britain."

"Good morning to you too, Blaise," Draco said dryly. "How nice it is to see you."

Blaise ignored him. "Everyone has been talking about it, Draco, it came out Saturday morning. Haven't you noticed?"

"Well, over the past few years I've gotten used to people staring at me and whispering about me when my back is turned, so today didn't seem much different," Draco replied truthfully. Since the war, the Malfoy family had had a fall—or plummet, rather—from grace, and since he first picked up a job at the Ministry in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to make a name for himself and try to put the past behind him, there had been many a suspicious glare or muttered insult. "And besides," Draco added, "there can't be much to it. Mother refused press coverage."

"Turn to page seventeen."

Blaise knew that Draco hated being told what to do, and the pair ended up in a heated staring contest before Draco finally relented, reaching for the sorry excuse for a magazine. When he landed on the page, his eyebrows climbed to an impossible height up his forehead.

Some _fucker_ had somehow managed to sneak a camera onto the grounds and had apparently settled themselves in a tree, in the courtyard closest to Draco's window, and had taken several shots of he and the gypsy woman lying in bed. His arm was flung over her in what Draco now saw as a (strangely) fiercely protective manner, and his face was buried in her neck. The whole scene looked sickeningly picturesque—had he really slept with that stupid smile on his face?

"Now read the article."

Draco skimmed it, his annoyance building with every phrase.

_Malfoy heir… Masquerade Ball… looking quite dashing… provocative, nearly-naked "dancer" dressed as a gypsy… receding from the Ball Room appearing "smashed" with the seductive girl… no doubt a night filled with intense, forbidden passion ensued… went to sleep looking quite cosy…_

It was the last sentence that really pissed him off though. _Is the young Malfoy pursuing a love affair with a girl who is clearly beneath him in some sort of fit of rebellion? Or is he sinking into a life riddled with drinking and call girls as a way of dealing with his family's already ruined reputation?_

"My parents…"

"…are going to murder you," Blaise finished knowingly. "And right after they got so much good press for hosting the Masquerade."

Draco ran his hand through his hair and down his face. "Will I be able to go out in public today?" he asked.

"Doubt it, mate. Rita Skeeter is rumoured to have sent some of her underlings to try and snag you on your way out of the Ministry. A few others have been staking out at the Grim Reaper's since the article was released," Blaise answered, naming a bar that Draco frequented in Diagon Alley.

"Bloody brilliant," the blond sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"In other news, I found this." Blaise threw down a memo on the desk. "One of those damn bats they have flying around for Halloween dropped it on my head on my way in. I hope you don't mind, but I already took the liberty to read it. Barricker wants you in his office at 9:30. Granger will be there, so good luck to you, mate."

Draco groaned. While she had definitely become less obnoxious (and prettier, if he was to honest with himself) in the last few years, and they managed civil conversation whenever forced to work together, just sitting fifteen feet away from her was perhaps the most awkward experience of his life, considering their past and the fact that she had, ahem, been tortured rather badly in his parlour room (which, by the way, had been demolished and rebuilt. All parts of the Manor that had ever been touched by Lord Voldemort or Death Eater Magic had been torn down and reconstructed, another show of positive transformation on the Malfoys' part for the Ministry).

"'Suppose I'd better go, then. Thanks, Blaise. Take that rubbish with you, would you? Actually, I've a better idea—" Draco reached for his wand, tapping the magazine and causing it to burst into flames. "There."

Blaise chuckled. "Have a nice day, mate," he said, saluting as he backed towards the door.

"That's bloody near impossible now," Draco grumbled.

"Alright then. Have _a _day," Blaise amended before shutting the door behind him.

In the few precious minutes Draco had between the meeting with his boss and Granger, the former-Slytherin worked on paperwork—all the writing, signing, memorising, reading and sending that no one else in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wanted to do. He shared the job with ten other witches and wizards, and the sector's official title was "Knowledge and Resources Acquisition and Dispersal", though it was complete bollocks and everyone in the department knew it. It was a tedious job but he was paid a fair amount and it was a _job_, which he supposed counted more than anything else.

The minutes passed by much too quickly, and before he knew it, Draco was standing and gathering some of his more important paperwork into a folder and pocketing his wand.

Barricker's office was only a few hallways down, so the walk was much shorter than Draco would have preferred it to be. He ended up reaching the door two minutes early, and decided it would be a better idea to simply wait outside until 9:30 and get his shit together.

He dropped down to the floor and leaned his head against the wall, letting his eyes close once he was sure no one was coming out of their office any time soon. To be honest, Draco had hardly gotten any sleep since the Masquerade Saturday night. Memories of his night with the gypsy girl swirled around his mind as if it were a pensieve, and all he could think about was her rebelliously curly hair and the vibrant colour of her eyes and the way she had made him smile and the sensation of her wet heat enveloping his cock and—

"Malfoy?"

Draco looked up. _"Shit_," he muttered under his breath, scrambling to his feet.

"Hoping I was just going to not show up or something?" Hermione Granger said, more teasingly than angrily, placing a hand on her hip.

"More like I would be on my feet before you saw me," Draco said honestly, but unable to keep the snarl out of his voice.

"Roger that," Granger said, saluting smartly, not unlike Blaise had earlier that morning. "Shall we?"

Draco opened the door and held it for her, matching her mock-simpering smile with something more resembling a wince.

"Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy!" Barricker said as they entered the office. "Good morning, Good morning, take a seat! I promise this will be brief."

Ulysses Barricker was a rotund, jovial man with a large moustache and a personality too cheery and loud for his occupation. He was, in short, the overseer of all the paperwork that was done in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. No scrap of paper was given to the Minister from the department without Barricker's signature scrawled in his big, looping letters. He may have been likable if he wasn't so annoying.

As Draco and Granger settled in the two chairs stationed in front of Barricker's desk, he shuffled a pile of papers and set them down. "I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Granger, seeing as you had to cut your meeting with the Ambassador from Bulgaria short, but I was unable to find any more free time today," Barricker began, to which Granger replied, "Oh, no worries sir, we didn't have as much to speak about as we thought we did, anyway."

"Brilliant. Well, this is a fairly simple request. I'd like you to drudge up an old case for me, Miss Granger, one that's kept in your sector. The Meriwether case from five months ago—do you remember?"

"Yes," the former-Gryffindor replied. Draco remembered it, too. Meriwether had been arrested for trafficking illegal potions and selling them to underage witches and wizards.

"It seems as if our records made a grave error. Once you find the file, could you hand it off to Mr Malfoy? And Malfoy, I'd like you to review the evidence, testimonies, the whole bit, and then rewrite anything that needs rewriting.

"So sorry to bother you both with such a tedious task, but you're the only ones I trust enough to get it right the second time."

"Sounds simple enough," Granger said. "I'm sure dearest _Draco_ and I will have no trouble at all." Dearest Draco rolled his eyes as soon as Barricker looked away.

"Lovely. The case needs to be in by this Friday, though if you have time I daresay you can head down and grab the papers in the next fifteen minutes or so. Thank you both," Barricker said, and the pair took it as a dismissal and headed out.

"You got time this morning, Malfoy?"

Draco mock-scoffed. "Are you kidding me, Granger? My job is much too interesting and involving me to sacrifice fifteen minutes for you."

She actually laughed. Damn, it sounded familiar. But it wasn't like he'd never heard it before—

"Here, follow me."

The two of them headed down to Granger's office, which was on the same floor but in a different wing, seeing as her work was more as a researcher-slash-occasional-attorney and had a whole sector's-worth of people to her paperwork for her.

"Good morning, Lottie," Granger said, quite friendly, as they passed a woman working in a cubicle just outside the former-Gryffindor's office.

"Morning, Hermione," the woman replied.

"The Meriwether case should be in this drawer," Granger muttered to herself, beckoning Draco closer as he shut the office door behind her and crouched in front of a filing cabinet. "Help me look for it, will you? Out of the shite-tons of drawers I have in this office, this _would_ be the only one not alphabetized…" she said to herself as Draco crouched beside her, mutely pawing through folders for the name _Meriwether_.

His thoughts had already moved off the case they were supposed to find and had travelled back to the gypsy girl. Dammit, why couldn't he think of anyone else? It wasn't like magic, though. He would be feeling much loopier and much more "out-of-it" had she put a spell on him, that much he was sure of. Draco simply couldn't get her out of his head. The smooth texture of her skin, her crystalline laugh, the taste of her lips pressed hard against his, and her sweet, delicious scent—

The blond's head whipped to the side. That smell. The strawberry-vanilla smell, soft and unassuming but utterly delectable. He could smell it now, smell it as it wafted into his nostrils like a springtime breeze, and _fuckbutitwascomingfromGrange r._

Draco's hands froze, and he stared at her for a moment that lasted an eternity, because _shit_, but he knew those lips that were set into a determined frown, he knew them because of their shape if not their colour (and what a beautiful shape they were). And those curls… he remembered those curls now, only they were darker when he had seen them last, and they did not seem bushy to him at the time, they had seemed as wild and lovely and carefree as the woman from which they grew. And the way she walked and the way she spoke and the way she held herself—Draco knew _all _of it because Merlin help him, he had seen and heard them all before two night ago when—

She caught him staring and turned to stare at him in return, sound coming from between those beautiful lips (though his ears seemed unable to process sound at the moment), and his mind was whirring furiously as he tried to think of every moment he spent with that girl and if he could somehow attach it to Granger.

Her intelligence and knowledge. Her blatant refusal to take off the mask. Her easy wordplay. Her concern for the house elves_. "I knew a man who looked like you," _she had said, "_but he was a bastard_." And then, the next morning: _"I'm sure we'll see each other again _very_ soon,_"

Jesus fucking Christ.

Draco hardly felt himself rise from his crouched position, but he felt Granger's jumper in his hands as he pulled her up with him, and could feel her body align against his as he pushed her against the filing cabinet, knocking her backward so forcefully that the bottom drawer banged shut behind her. It was at this noise that reality drenched him as if it had been poured onto him, ice-cold from a bucket, while anger and confusion ran white-hot in his veins.

"What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?" Draco demanded, gripping her hard by the hips when he caught sight of the slight panic that flashed across her (disturbingly, distressingly beautiful) face.

"What the hell was _I _doing?" she demanded. "What the hell are _you_ doing? Get off me, Malfoy, I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"You know _exactly _what I'm talking about, Granger. It was _you_, wasn't it? You're the one—"

"The one who what?" She looked genuinely thoughtful before understanding flicker over her features. "Hell, Malfoy, do you think I'm that mystery bird you shagged two nights ago?" Granger laughed, and to Draco it sounded too forced and false. "_Me?_" she added for emphasis, sounding incredulous, but Draco _knew_ it was all an act because Merlin help him, how could he have not recognised those lips or that hair or that voice, and how could he have ever forgotten them?

"I know it was you, you little bitch, because—"

"Because what? How could you ever be so sure that I'm the girl you shagged?" she said, her cheery attitude from minutes before gone as she clawed at his hands, which were still clasped tightly on her hips.

"Your—" but Draco stopped himself, because answering Granger correctly would prove to her that that night meant something to him, that she had properly seduced him, and that he had become absolutely smitten with the gypsy girl in black and red. And she had no right to know that, not now.

"That's right," she said, very matter-of-fact. "You've got nothing." And she finally managed to wrestle free of his grip, instantly tearing away from him faster than Draco would have have imagined.

He'd been a Seeker, though, and had fought a war, so his reflexes were top notch and he instantly reached out for her, reaching for whatever bit of her he could snag, and by some wild chance of fate, or destiny, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it, Draco snatched the collar of her shirt and it dipped down, down so far that the edge of her blue bra poked out, and—

and it left bare a large patch of skin between her breast and her collar bone, where a familiar grey, circular birthmark sat.

They both stared at it for a long time, fury bubbling up Draco's throat and realisation through Granger's eyes.

"You _bitch_," he all but shouted at her, rage and regret pouring out of his mouth. "You fucking _bitch_, sinking so low just to humiliate me—I bet you hired that bloke, too, to snap the pictures—and I—Fuck it, but I…"

"Draco…" Granger began, any venom disappearing almost instantly from her voice as she must have realised the gig was up, and she had the nerve to look _apologetic_, and damn did she look beautiful, she still looked fucking beautiful, how had he never noticed it until now—

"_No_," Draco said, trying to keep his voice low and trembling with the effort. "You sadistic _cunt_, Granger, you—you played me for a bloody fool! And I—Mother of Merlin, I thought—"

"What?" she asked softly, looking—looking almost _hopeful_.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he said, shaking his head. "Because my parents are probably going to murder me for the bad publicity, I won't be able to get out of the house for weeks, and it was all a joke. A fucking joke." It sort of felt like being in shock now, and he supposed he was. It was only now that Draco was realising that he hadn't minded at all, how protective and possessive he looked with his arm slung over the gypsy—over _Granger_—because he had thought to find her again and make her his.

Well, now he'd found her, and it turned out to be his worst nightmare. He'd been played for a _fucking_ fool.

With that, Draco spun around on his heel and began to stride away, determined to get away, away from _her _because even though it was Granger and he was furious, it didn't stop Draco from appreciating the gold in her eyes or the freckles on her nose or that hair that had been so soft under his touch that night. He needed a glass of wine—no, he needed vodka or whiskey or rum—something to make him forget for just a few blessed hours—

A small, warm hand latched onto Draco's and he instantly shook it off, whirling around to yell another insult at Granger (_How dare you stop me—)_, but before he had the time arms were wrapped tightly around his neck and lips were attacking his viciously, delicious and soft and Merlin, that tongue was doing wondrous things to his insides.

Completely blind-sided and utterly shocked, Draco could do little but respond enthusiastically, the way his heart and body wanted to but his brain screamed against, his hands reaching up, one to bury itself in Granger's hair and the other to cup her jaw, his tongue meeting hers in an explosive battle of wills, her delectable taste sending sparks of desire burning down his groin.

When they broke the kiss, Draco's hand was still knotted in her curls and Granger's arms were still wrapped around his neck, and the two were gasping for breath. Hesitantly, Granger rose onto her tip-toes and pressed a kiss into his neck, and then into his jaw, and Draco allowed her, dumbstruck.

"I don't know who snapped those photos," Granger said quietly. "I was just as surprised as you were when they were printed. I… I fancied you, Malfoy, and I just wanted to talk to you and flirt with you and be with you, without the prejudice and without the past. It was simply an extra bonus that I got to sleep with you, as well," she added with a timid smile. "I probably should have refused when you… asked… but you were never supposed to find out who I was."

_You were never supposed to pay that much attention,_ were the unspoken words, and Draco heard them loud and clear.

"What—h-how could you have possibly _fancied_ me?" he demanded, still not ready to believe her and still awestruck by the kiss. It was just so… improbable. Impossible. Because she had hated him for years, and he had hated her, and she had been tortured (for Merlin's sake!) in his parlour room, and how could she possibly have fancied him in the least?

"I believed you changed." Her gaze fell from his eyes to his lips while her hand traced his face, from the side of his temple to his jaw, and landed on the side of his neck. It was only after that Draco thought to jerk away. Granger continued speaking anyway. "You got a job at the Ministry, you stayed out of the press, you didn't purposely antagonise me even though we saw each other on a weekly basis _at least_, you seemed to have a sense of humour-albeit a rather dry, sarcastic one-and Merlin, Malfoy, what you said about your house elves…" She looked up. "Plus, I meant what I said that night. You… you truly are beautiful."

A blotchy red colour dumped onto her face, and it shouldn't have been pretty, not in the least, it shouldn't have been attractive at all, but it was, fucking hell, it was.

"So what was your plan? Pretend it never happened?" The words tumbled out of Draco's mouth and clumsily fell to the ground without any warning at all.

"The odds of you fancying me back… astronomical. I'm not stupid, Malfoy. Just because you don't use the word 'Mudblood' anymore doesn't mean you are suddenly going to start liking me. I only wanted one night, and I managed to convince myself I would have been set. And I knew, if you had found out—which you did—you would not be very happy with me at all. And I was right, wasn't I?" she said. "You don't fancy me back, and you are in fact very angry with me, and I deserve it."

Draco lost his ability to speak at "only one night", and could only stare at her blankly as she continued speaking and he attempted to wrap his head around this situation he'd found himself in.

"I apologise, Malfoy. I really am sorry for all the trouble I've caused you. I hope you can forgive me, eventually, but for now, thank you for simply hearing me out. But now I just really need you to leave."

And because Draco Malfoy was an idiot, and because Draco Malfoy's wits had at some point crawled away and hidden in some remote corner of his mind, he left her office without a word the words he meant to say hiding among his wits.

* * *

**A/N:**

Does this count as a cliff-hanger? I'm not quite sure, but if it is, I apologise. This fic is short. Things are moving quickly on purpose. I hope it doesn't bother you readers.

Thanks to all sixteen or so of you who reviewed since last time, and the eighty-five who are currently following this story now. You all flatter me :) I'll try to have the next chapter up by the holiday, but that probably won't happen, so Happy Halloween to you all!

~Gen


	4. Hide Your Face

**Four**

_"Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you"  
_"Masquerade", _Phantom of the Opera_, Andrew Lloyd Webber

* * *

**It was** simply too early for this sort of shit. Draco decided upon that fact as soon as he stepped out of Hermione's office, ignoring Lottie's confused, sort of angry stare. His mind wasn't made for this sort of stress, for this sort of situation, and there was too much to process and not enough brain power on Draco's part to do it properly. Too much to consider, like his strange, sudden feelings for a masked girl, the stress of seeing the bad press and the anxiety over the consequences, the shock of finding that Hermione Granger was the gypsy girl, the anger that she had fooled and mortified him, the possibility that her words held truth—that she truly had had some sort of feelings for him prior to that night—and now, the fact that he had left her alone without any true confirmation that her words were genuine.

Besides that mind-blowing, heart-stopping, blood-burning kiss that she had just given him a few moments ago.

"Fuck," he groaned, running his hands through his hair halfway down a hallway. How had he ever walked way?

Instantly, Draco spun around on his heel, practically sprinting down the hall and back in the direction of Granger's office. Even if the kiss was a lie (which he very much doubted), he still needed to hear it for himself. Draco had spent way too many years being lied to and being denied the truth.

The blond once again found himself in front of Hermione Granger's door, though this time his fist was raised to knock.

"She's not there anymore."

Draco whirled around. It was that Lottie girl who had spoken, and she hadn't even looked up from her pile of parchment while doing so.

"She apparated out."

The former-Slytherin scoffed. "You can't apparate out of the Ministry."

"Apparently being a world-famous war-hero gives you special perks."

Draco nearly roared in frustration. He settled instead for making a very discontented noise.

"Do you know where I can find her?"

"You're the one who made her leave, I'm assuming," Lottie said, and Draco seethed. "Shouldn't you know that more than I would?"

He disregarded her, choosing to rein in the snarky response he had poised at the ready, and simply turned around to avoid more conflict.

_Forget work for the day_, Draco decided. _As if you have anything important to do anyway._ _Focus on finding Granger. _But where to begin? He had learned a lot about her the night of the Masquerade (her favourite author was Victor Hugo and she hated the American Ministry with a vengeance), but those were hardly going to help him at all to find her. Who would know where the Gryffindor Golden Girl slinks off to in her times of distress?

_Potter_, Draco thought immediately. Perhaps Weasley, too, but from what the blond had gathered from their Hogwarts days, despite having a brief romantic relationship with the ginger (Draco now shuddered at the thought), Granger was much more open, friendlier, and more talkative

with Potter. The Boy Who Lived would be easier to track down, as well—he was bloody head of the Auror Office, to _not_ know where he worked would practically be a crime in the Ministry.

Draco began navigating impossibly quickly through the winding hallways of the Department of magical Law Enforcement. He must have looked strange, with the determined stride and the distressed expression plastered on his face, for he got even more looks than usual. Or perhaps it had more to do with that blasted article from _Witch Weekly. _

The blond ignored them all (he'd gotten quite good at that over the past few years), turning a final corner before coming to the large double doors that led into the Auror Offices. As he pushed open the doors, off-duty aurors working in cubicles all looked up from their paperwork and maps and case summaries. Draco fought to keep his expression calm and collected—he was friendly with none of these witches and wizards, and many of them had not one kind thought for him.

Potter's office was at the end of the hall, and Draco headed toward it, knocking on the door as soon as his arm could reach. You would have thought that he'd spat on it instead, given the insulted expressions that flashed over many Aurors' faces.

"Come in," Potter said pleasantly from inside, probably thinking he was about to see the Minister or Weasley or anyone other than Draco Mafoy, but Draco was hardly one to look a gift-horse in the mouth and pushed open the door, stepping into Potter's office.

The Chosen One looked up from his desk and looked stricken to see the former-Slytherin in his office.

"Malfoy? What—"

"Where would Granger be," Draco cut in sharply, "if she were to be… upset, or distressed." He would not waste time explaining himself, because Potter would never understand.

"Why?" he said, surprise morphing into suspicion. "What have you done to her?"

"We had a—a misunderstanding," Draco replied coolly. "And I need to find her."

"A 'misunderstanding'?" Potter said disbelievingly. "How do you mean?"

"It's none of your business," the blond snapped. "I just need to find her."

"Well, there are loads of places she could be, but it really all depends on what exactly happened."

"I can't tell you that," Draco said gruffly.

"Well then that's not much use to me, is it, Malfoy? What happened between you and Hermione?"

"You can't just—"

"It's either that or you can get out of my office. Now."

Draco was quiet for a long, drawn-out moment. How would Potter react his current situation? Angry? Scandalised? Disbelieving? _It doesn't matter,_ the blond found himself thinking. _I need to talk to Granger. _

"Did you read that article about me in that rag _Witch Weekly?_" Draco asked.

"No, of course not—"

"Of course you have, every witch and wizard in Britain has at least seen it by now!" Draco said with a sigh.

Potter bit his lip. "Parvati might have slipped it to me this morning," he replied, appearing downright humiliated that he'd even looked at the filth. Draco didn't blame him, but nonetheless took what was probably too much pleasure in the slightly mortified blush that flashed across Potter's face.

"You leak this, Potter, and I will personally hunt you down and _Avada Kedavra _your sorry arse."

The Chosen One's eyebrow rose. "Is that a threat?"

"Only if you feel inclined to act against it."

"Alright. How does the article about you written in _Witch Weekly_ have to do with Hermione?"

The blond hesitated.

"She's the girl in the photograph."

Draco might as well as told him that he'd killed Potter's owl himself by the look the other man was giving him. _Which was to be expected._ "I had no idea until today," the blond continued before Potter could speak, "She'd kept her identity well-hidden. But I found out this morning and… and I might have… shouted at her and said… some very nasty things before she could explain. And I… I regret it now."

Potter cleared his throat, tugging at his tie and looking anywhere but Draco's face. "You sound sincere enough, so I suppose Hermione wouldn't murder me for telling you this…" he looked up and gave him a wry smile. "How familiar are you with Muggle London?"

O

**Not familiar** at all, was Draco's immediate answer, which was slightly problematic. Potter had no idea of the name or address of the book shop, and could only give him landmarks. Soon enough, though, the Head Auror named a landmark that did recognise, and then gave him directions from there. It was complicated, full of back-alleys and twisty turns, but when _not_ under emotional trauma or confusion, Draco Malfoy had a more than decent mind and memory.

"Thank you, Potter," he'd said to ol' Scar-Head after he'd finished speaking.

"What, no 'I owe you one, Potty?'" Potter said wryly.

"If things work out alright with Granger, then I'll owe you," Draco said before walking out of the office.

When he stepped out of the fireplace onto the street of muggle London, the former-Slytherin was not prepared for what awaited him. He cursed Granger immediately for causing him to forget.

Reporters stood in alleyways and in front of coffee shops, dressed in bizarre attempts at muggle attire. They were trying to be discreet (the law would not allow them to be anything else), though they were doing a poor job of it. Camera flashes went off as soon as Draco was out of the Ministry, and nearly a dozen reporters stood up and began walking toward him, note pads in hand.

They began yelling even before they were five feet away from the blond. "Draco, Draco Malfoy, we have a few questions for you—"

"Draco, if you aren't busy, I would like to arrange—"

"Mr Malfoy, a photo for the _Prophet_ if you please—"

"Draco Malfoy, have you discovered the identity of—"

"Draco—"

"Mr Malfoy—"

Unwilling (and perhaps even incapable) of dealing with them all, Draco whipped out his wand and apparated, positive that he was shielded enough by the small mob or reporters that no muggle would see the bit of magic. Instantly, he was transported to an alley a few meters away from the Leaky Cauldron. Draco ducked inside and donned his cloak, drawing the hood up so it left his face in shadow. Muggle curiosity be damned, there was no way he was going to run into any more "reporters" for the rest of the day.

The former-Slytherin stepped out of the alley and continued on his way, his pace getting more and more hurried as he followed Potter's instructions. _Left here… and a right here… and cross the road here… and left here…_ Time passed both irritatingly slowly and sickeningly quickly, and it felt like both three hours and three seconds had passed as Draco walked by the odd bean-like statue at the cross-walk Potter had described.

The blond stared at it as he crossed the street, allowing him that distraction. Muggles had such a strange taste in art. The Slytherin tapped his thigh as he strode, getting closer and closer to his target. What would he say to Granger? How would she respond? If she was even there. Draco started to panic. He'd forgotten to count that scenario, just as he had forgotten the reporters that had mobbed him. What if Potter was somehow wrong and Granger wasn't actually in there? Draco wasn't sure if he could deal with that, so he pretended as though it wasn't even a possibility in the first place.

The shop was what the former-Slytherin had expected it to be. Nameless, small and cluttered, with stacks and stacks of books pressed against the front window. They blocked the view of the shop's interior, giving only one clue—that there would be plenty more to be found inside.

Draco inhaled and exhaled slowly as he stood in front of the door. Then he pushed it open.

A bell rang cheerily over his head, as if giving him a sort of pep talk as Draco lowered his hood. Inside, there were towers of books, desks and chairs nearly completely hidden beneath. The wooden floor was broken and chipped, littered with books that had lost their balance and fallen to the floor. The smell was everywhere—dusty and thick, but not suffocating, and almost pleasant. The smell of books.

The shop travelled farther back, but anything other than the front room was obscured by books and shelving. A desk sat to the right hand corner, and a thin, young man sat behind it, reading under a small lamp. He was dressed properly in muggle attire and looked rather unremarkable, so the blond guessed him to be a muggle. He looked up as Draco walked in, placing the book to the side.

"Good morning," he said politely. "How may I help you?"

"I—I'm looking for a girl—er, young woman," Draco amended. "Brown, curly hair, sort of pale and short—"

"You mean 'Mione?"

The blond frowned. Was he really that friendly with Granger? "Yes," Draco replied.

"'Mione, can you come out here for a second?" the young man shouted over his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ, Matt, I told you not to call me that!"

Draco's stomach lurched. She really was here. And those were her footsteps, coming from the back room…

"Honestly, you sound like Ron when he has his mouth full of food—" Granger began as she emerged, tiptoeing her way around a tall stack of books. Pushing her hair out of her face, she took a step closer and froze. "_Malfoy?_"

Christ, she was beautiful, even without the deep black hair and the golden skin and the blood-red lips; maybe even more beautiful, now, because she was natural and she, all of her, stood in front of him without a mask in sight. How had he not noticed it sooner?

And how was it that Hermione Granger, out of all the witches in this entire world, was the only one who could make his brain freeze and his mouth work on its own accord? _Someone ought to sew my mouth shut when I'm around her_, Draco thought, immediately after saying, "Surprise."

"Wh-what the hell are you doing here?" she said. "How did you—"

"Potter told me," he interrupted. "I explained—"

"You did _what?_" Granger all but shrieked. She glanced nervously over to the Matt fellow, who was suddenly slouching in his seat and trying to pretend as if he didn't exist. "Matt, I'm going to take him in the back room, okay?"

"Alright. Just don't—don't break anything."

The brunette lunged for Draco's arm and pulled him forward while simultaneously giving the muggle man what looked very much like a sneer.

Granger dragged him through man rows of books before they reached a small doorway leading into what was hardly larger than a closet. An armchair much too big for the room stood in the corner and an ottoman stacked with books nearly blocked the door way.

The former-Gryffindor squeezed them in between the chair and the books, and they ended up standing less than a foot and a half away from each other. For nearly a full minute a glass wall of silence stood between them. Draco could not help but stare, tracing her cheek bones and jaw and the curve of her lips and the shape of her eyes, and he wondered yet again how it was possible to have never figured out that Granger and the gypsy were one and the same.

She was the one to shatter the silence, crossing her arms and sighing. "I'm guessing you're here because you want to know more about that night," the brunette said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Well, yes—"

"Then go on. Ask me whatever you want."

Draco thought for a moment. What to ask first? Again, the most ridiculous thing came to mind first. "Who were the other strolling players?" he blurted.

She smiled, then, and Draco was suddenly drawn to the fact that her smile was much prettier than he remembered it back in Hogwarts, back when her teeth were crooked and the front two were buck-toothed. Still as pearly-white as always, though. "No one. They were all mirages."

"Who made them up, then?"

"Just me," Granger said, a touch of pride in her voice.

"You're joking." Despite years and years of seeing her in action, he still managed to underestimate her. Hermione Granger really was the brightest witch of their age-perhaps the most powerful, too.

"No, not at all." She shook her head. "Your parents didn't even notice that they weren't real. I think the only person that recognised them for what they were was Luna."

"Lovegood?" Draco said, with a bit more derision than he'd meant, apparently, because Granger scowled.

"Why must everyone underestimate Luna? She really is much more brilliant-and definitely more perceptive-than anyone gives her credit for," she said. "Anyway, I created them all before coming into the hall. They didn't touch any of the guests, if you'd noticed."

"I hadn't noticed at all," Draco said. "I suppose I was too focussed on you."

Finally, he seemed to have said something right, because Granger drew a sudden, silent breath and blushed, that red splashing bright and vicious against her cheeks. "A better lie than I've ever come up with," she muttered, her eyes trained on the corner of the room.

"Not a lie," he told her, deciding it would probably be better just to roll with it, now that it had popped out of his mouth. "Merlin, Granger, you really are a piece of work. You go through all this hassle just to get near me, tricking my parents and nearly all the guests with your rouse, you practically monopolise my night, you manage to woo me so successfully that I invite you into my bed, and then you land me with shitloads of bad publicity."

"I really am sorry about that last bit—"

He continued as if she hadn't spoken at all. "And I still don't know everything I want to know about that night, like how you were such a convincing actress then while you're pretty shitty at it today, and when and where you learned to dance like you did that night, and if you were planning to take this secret to the grave while we grew up and apart and I got married to Daphne Greengrass or whoever and you patched things up with Weasley."

Granger made a face at the mention of the ginger git, and Draco managed to reign in a grin.

"And maybe you made up some weird potion to slip in my drink that night or maybe it's just my subconscious rebelling against my parents, or maybe this is genuine-Salazar help me if it is-but I feel as though I'm at the very brink of realising something extremely important."

She got a sort of hopeful look in her eye as he said this. "And what is that, Mr Malfoy?" she asked.

"Give me a repeat of Halloween night and I'll tell you."

* * *

**A/N:**

So I'd been entertaining the idea of making this six chapters, but when I finished this one I decided we only needed one more. Also, I only skimmed through this once so it's probably riddled with spelling errors. The reason this chapter is a bit on the late side is 1.) Life, and 2.) Friday night, instead of finishing this chapter I was struck almost violently by a one-shot idea. I ended up staying up until 4 in the morning to finish it. I'm going to revise it tonight and maybe have it up in a few hours, if I'm lucky. If not, expect it in a day or two.

Thanks to all of you amazing people who have alerted and favourited and left me gorgeous comments in reviews, you all are wonderful! Hope everyone who had to deal with the hurricane is alright, and happy belated-Halloween!

~Gen


	5. Blessed Release

** Five**

_"May the splendour never fade!_  
_What a blessed release_  
_and what a masquerade."_  
"Masquerade (Film Soundtrack Version)", _Phantom of the Opera_, Andrew Lloyd Webber

* * *

**Draco pulled** on a black long-sleeved shirt and ran his fingers through his hair nervously. More nervously than he expected, and definitely more nervously than he wanted. Malfoys were never supposed to get nervous. It was simply beneath them. But Draco was most definitely nervous tonight. Tiny shots of adrenaline had been running through his veins since the hour before, when he stepped out of the shower and rubbed the fog off the mirror, the realisation that he was about to have a date with _Hermione Granger _ practically blindsiding him. It was like an epiphany, only more joyous and more painful at the same time.

He cringed as he thought back to their conversation back in the bookshop, where, after a fabulous, heartfelt speech that he'd made up completely on the spot, he'd blurted out the most presumptuous, prick-ish thing he could ever have thought up: "Give me a repeat of Halloween night and I'll tell you." God. That sounded cheesier and grosser every time he thought about it.

Draco felt sort of lucky that he didn't get a nice slap 'round the face for that. Instead, there was just a guarded, slightly insulted, utterly silent stare from Hermione for roughly ten seconds.

"A well-and-proper date, I hope you mean," she said, finally, in a clipped voice. "Because if you think I'm going to shag you again, after all the shit I got myself into the last time I did it, you are out of your mind," she added.

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I mean," Draco replied, nearly sighing in relief as he realised the suggestion that had snuck underneath his sentiment.

"You won't be able to go anywhere for months, though," she said. "And the entire _world _will be scandalised if we suddenly appear together so soon after you were supposed to be finding love with a call girl, according to your article in _Witch Weekly._"

"It's not my article," Draco said, a bit indignantly. "I didn't write it, and I definitely didn't want it."

"I didn't mean it like that," she said defensively. "Honestly, it's like every word out of my mouth is a bullet."

"A _what_?"

"Never mind," she said with a sigh. But then she smiled. "We're so dysfunctional," she commented.

"Yes, remember? I've _changed_," Draco reminded her.

"Apparently not as much as I'd thought," she muttered, but the slight curve of her lips let him know that she was teasing.

"So... I'm taking that as a yes?"

"I just want to know how you're going to make this work," the former-Gryffindor answered.

"I'll figure something out," Draco said, waving dismissively. "Trust me, Hermione, I've had plenty of experience dealing with the media."

A strange look came upon her face when he said her name. It was only in the instant later that he realised it was possibly the first time he'd ever uttered her first name without her last trailing behind… in his entire life.

Perhaps it was the name-saying that prompted her amiable response: "Alright, I'll trust you. When are you free this weekend?"

This _weekend?_ Draco wasn't sure if he'd be able to wait a week. The compilation of overwhelming emotions that had been packed into his psyche over the course of the weekend and that day had made him jittery and impatient to decide, for sure, that he wanted Hermione and that she still wanted him.

"How about tonight?" he blurted, and instantly cursed himself. He sounded awfully, awfully needy, and his Malfoy pride was smacking him over the head for it.

"Tonight? You'll be able to book a place tonight?"

Sometimes, honesty really was the best policy. "I'm not quite sure, but if nothing fails, I hope you don't mind coming over my flat and eating burnt pasta by candlelight," he said, putting on the most charming smile he could muster under the bewildering circumstances.

And she grinned. "That sounds much better than any other dinner."

He vaguely remembered setting up a time and giving her the address to his flat, her insisting that he go back to work, and then closing his eyes as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek right before he walked out. And, of course, that slick git, Matt, giving him a cheeky smirk on his way out. Draco couldn't blame him, though—he was probably grinning like an idiot.

In a long list of bad decisions, he'd finally made a good one, and he'd made it like _that_. Upon seeing Hermione, just hearing her voice and getting his head cleared, Draco was convinced that she had in fact been telling the truth, and though some part of him still simmered at the effects the media attention would have on him for the next few weeks, there was never a rush more intense than the one he had felt when he'd practically bared soul to Hermione, insinuating that the intended one-night-stand had ended up meaning so much more to him than he ever could have imagined.

And though he hadn't actually said it outright, he'd suggested it, which more than his father ever did for his mother when they had first been married, that he knew for sure.

Back in the present, Draco checked his appearance one more time—simple black v-neck with muggle jeans, hair attractively tousled—and walked out of the bathroom and into the rest of his flat. Spaghetti (the only meal he knew how to make the muggle way) bubbled on the stove in a small pot of boiling water, almost finished. The meal probably would have been a lot nicer, complex, and better-tasting if he'd used magic, but something told him that Hermione would be much more impressed if he made her something the muggle way, even if he could barely do it properly.

He checked his watch. 6:40. Hermione wouldn't be here for another twenty minutes or so. Having nothing else to do but wait for the spaghetti to finish, Draco settled himself down on the couch. As he'd found in his 6th year, emotions were much more taxing and exhausting than they let on, and he couldn't help but lean his head back against the cool leather and let his eyes drift closed…

O

_**"Jesus fucking** Christ!"_

The scream jolted Draco into consciousness and he sprung to his feet, a reaction born from war which proved beneficial in that moment.

He whirled around, his mind befuddled and bewildered as the blaring beeps of his single smoke detector blasted through the air and Hermione—how had she gotten into his flat?—whipped past him into the kitchen area, where apparently the pasta and stove had overheated and then proceeded to catch fire.

He tore towards her as she snaked her hand around the flame and smoke and fumbled with the dial. Draco pulled his wand from his pocket and aimed it at the fire. "_Aguamenti!_" he shouted, dousing the flames with water, which proved rather useless.

"No, no!" Hermione screamed. "You don't put water on a gas fire!" she added before finally reaching the dial and turning it off. The fire in the stove went out almost immediately, while the fire inside the pot dimmed slightly. The brunette leaned against the counter and sighed in relief. Apparently the greater of the evils had been extinguished. "Get a lid on that," she yelled, relatively calmer, as she pointed to the pot.

"Right," Draco said, reaching for the lid of the pot and slapping it on.

The smoke alarm still beeped overhead, and they both seemed to look up at the same time. "I've got it," Hermione said, kicking off her shoes easily and jumping onto the counter, reaching up to press some sort of button. The beeping stopped immediately and she jumped back down, walking back to the pot and lifting the lid, peering through the thin veil of smoke at the contents inside. The fire inside had gone out.

"You idiot," she said, turning around and smacking him upside the head. "Give me a fucking heart attack, why don't you?"

Draco caught her hand on the way down, gripping her wrist and forcing her to meet his gaze. She looked lovely when she was frazzled, her chest heaving and her golden-brown eyes glowing with this almost… _mad _sort of glint. "Thank you," he said sincerely while adrenaline seeped from his veins.

"Don't mention it," she said, reddening slightly and dropping her gaze back down to the floor. "Just don't fucking fall asleep when you've got something on the stove, dumbass," she added, but didn't sound nearly as angry as she should or could have been.

"How did you get in?"

"Heard the alarm going off through the door and then cracked your wards when you didn't answer me," she said. "You sleep through _everything_."

"You _cracked _my _wards?_" Draco said incredulously.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Let you burn to death?"

"No, no," he amended quickly. "I'm just surprised you could do it."

Hermione's tone changed immediately. "They were very well done," she assured him gently. "But they don't call me 'the Brightest Witch of my Age' for nothing."

He chuckled softly. "I've done nothing but underestimate you the past few days."

"Yes, well, I suppose there's nothing much you can do about that," she said. "You were literally born to underestimate me."

"Quite right," Draco said thoughtfully. "I hope you don't mind, but I doubt I'm ever really going to learn to stop."

"That's alright," Hermione said with a shrug. "It'll make me seem more exciting."

"You've always been exciting. I've just recently found out that I actually enjoy it," he replied.

She blushed and slid away, reaching for her bag, which she'd dropped on the floor on her way in. "Here, hold this for a second," she said, opening it and placing either side of the mouth into Draco's hands. He frowned. It was a small beaded bag, hardly heavier than a feather, but when he peered inside its depths appeared almost endless and packed full of useful—and occasionally strange—paraphernalia.

Hermione reached in—all the way down past her elbows!—and emerged with a bowl of salad sealed with a clear lid, and small plate of biscuits. "I sort of wanted to bring a little extra," she said, setting them on the counter. "Lucky I did, or we would have gone without dinner."

"I think we would have found something to do if we had," Draco said, and the expression splashed on her face quite suddenly had him glancing over his words and cringing.

"I didn't mean that to come out as—"

"Crass? Bold? Arrogant?"

"Well—"

"It's okay. You're excused. You never had to learn social skills, considering all your friends adored the ground you walked on," Hermione said, and Draco bit back a retort—it was clear she was teasing.

"Do you have any plates? Cutlery?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah." He pulled out a drawer and fished out some forks and knives, setting them on the table as Hermione unwrapped the salad bowl and platter.

"Hey…" Draco said, noticing a bright red splotch on the inside of her forearm. He grabbed her wrist. "What's this?"

"Oh—nothing really. A little burn…"

He gave her a look. "Come on, Granger. You're supposed to put those under cold water as soon as it happens. I know for a fact that you knew that, because Snape told us so in second year."

"Yeah, but it doesn't feel that badly—"

"Come on," he said, leading her over to the sink in the corner of the kitchen. He flipped the spigot and pulled her by the wrist to guide her arm under the running water.

"Honestly, Draco, I'm fine," she said, turning around to face him, but he waved her off, ignoring the jitters that danced down his spine as she said his name. He was practically standing _around _her now, his front inches away her back, her hair right under his nose and… yep, he could smell it. Strawberries. Draco could barely stop himself from inhaling the scent. It took him back to four nights ago, when he had caught his first whiff of it in the ballroom and decided he wanted to take her into his bed. His trousers tightened as flashes of memory from that night blinked in his head.

"I've already started a kitchen fire," the blond said, hoping his voice didn't sound _too_ strangled. "I don't see how you thought I was going to be too bothered that you needed to fix up a burn."

"Gryffindor Selflessness," Hermione said, turning around. "We're almost as bad as the Hufflepuffs…" she added, but trailed off, as she seemed to have just realised just how close they were.

It was one of those moments, the sort that one would read about in books and scoff at happening in real life, the sort that one secretly wishes for until the day they die, no matter how ridiculously romantically exaggerated that moment may be. If Draco had been the poetic type, he may have thought about the stars aligning or fate tying a knot, or some other such nonsense, but seeing as he was not at all the poetic type, he simply felt that this was undeniably right.

In that moment, there seemed only to be the small pants of their breaths, and the exact points where their skin touched (through fabric or otherwise), and Hermione's soft, golden-tinted eyes putting up a rather weak defence against Draco's penetrating stare.

"What's your opinion on kissing on first dates?" he murmured, practically breathed, the water still running even though Hermione had withdrawn her arm what seemed like centuries ago.

"Well, there isn't much we haven't done yet, is there?" she whispered back, and Draco laughed before pressing his lips to hers. The world seemed to turn to light and warmth, the air feeling as though it was threaded with the scent of strawberries and nothing else, not even oxygen.

He could not help but kiss her greedily, hungrily, as though he was trying to suck out her very soul through her beautiful mouth, and fuck, but it was the most wonderful, most satisfying kiss he had experienced in all his life. And she, being Hermione Granger (who hated to be outdone at anything and everything), kissed him back with an almost equal fervour that made his heartbeat sprint and his pulse ache at his wrist, at his neck, in his chest.

She reached up to wind her fingers through his hair (Merlin, he loved it when she did that) and pulled him even closer to her, backing herself into the corner made by the sink and the counter and taking Draco along with her. He could do nothing but comply, taking either side of her face in his hands and holding her still closer, until he was sure he would pass out from their proximity.

Thankfully, that was averted when she hitched one leg up onto one of his hips, grinding herself into his rapidly growing erection, and he pulled away with a shuddering gasp. To let her know that he was still very much interested, Draco kept his hands in place and lowered his forehead to rest it against her own. Merlin, she was tantalising like this, pink in the face with her lips swelling and red, her breathing loud and laboured. But—

"I thought… you said..." Draco said between gasps, "that we weren't…going to… shag."

"Hmmm," Hermione said as the pads of her fingers traced up and down the nape of his neck in a rather distracting manner. "Did I really say that?" Besides the colour on her cheeks and the heaving of her chest, the former-Gryffindor seemed much less affected by all this than he (she could form proper sentences, for God's sake!), and if she had been any other girl, or if it had been anything other time, Draco would have been horrendously furious with himself.

"Yes. Directly after I made that daft remark about 'repeating Halloween night' or some such bollocks."

"Ah, yes," she said, her fingers abandoning his neck and trailing down his back before coming to rest at the waist of his jeans, her thumbs in the belt-loops. "I think I may have to retract that, then…" Granger leaned in again.

It took all of Draco's willpower to stop her in her tracks, but he did, because the last thing he wanted to end up with was a regretful, annoyed or even infuriated Hermione Granger. It was bad enough when he _didn't _feel this overwhelming need to shag her silly or this (Merlin help him, but it was true) _affection_ he was rapidly beginning to feel towards her.

"You're positive this is what you want?"

"You're positive that this is what _you _want?" Hermione asked, her tone much more serious.

He lowered his head to place his lips directly beside his ear, and relished the feeling of her slightly trembling body beneath him. "I've wanted this ever since you left the Manor that morning."

"Then I suppose that's settled," Hermione said with the hint of a stutter. Her thumbs tightened on the loops as she pressed her lips to his neck. "I am definitely shagging you."

"_You're _shagging _me?_" he said, teasingly.

"What? Do you have a problem with that?" she said, nibbling his neck before rolling her hips up into his. He shuddered.

"No. None at all." His voice was shaky and unsteady, but he was beyond the point of caring.

O

**They lay** in his bed (it had taken hours, from the kitchen to the couch to the floor in the hallway, but they had made it), and he lay on top of her, straddling her hips and running his fingers through her hair while they panted, breaths mingling in the small space between their faces.

"Fucking hell," Hermione breathed, looking just as dazed and sated as he felt.

"Quite right, love," Draco replied with a quiet chuckle.

"Fucking. Hell," she repeated, and he laughed.

"It's not like we haven't done it before," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but it sure as hell wasn't that good. Not to say it wasn't good," she amended, though Draco was far from offended. "It was spectacular. Only this was…"

"Mind-melting?"

"Exactly."

He rolled off of the Gryffindor and pulled her to his side, his hands making their way back to her hair. How had he not noticed it before, that it was this soft, this smooth, this comforting?

"Now Mr Malfoy," she rolled on her side and rested her head against her palm. "I believe you promised me that after today, you'd reveal the big epiphany you were on the brink of reaching."

"Shit," he muttered. "Did I really say it like that? It sounded rather good in my head, but—"

"It _was _rather good," she said, and looked honest, too, which was a quality in compliments directed at him that he wasn't used to. "Poetic, really, like something out of a romance novel."

Draco snorted. "Brilliant."

She laughed. "It is! I quite enjoyed it!"

"Well, if you say so…"

"…So? What is it?"

"Hmmm… let's see if I can remember…"

"Oh honestly, Malfoy, don't be such a prick," she said, laughing again.

"Alright." He took a deep breath. "Look, Hermione, this isn't really easy for me to say to you, to say to _anyone_, amd especially you, but… I think I want… I want you." Draco instantly wanted to hit himself over how corny that sounded. However, he forced himself to continue. "I want to date you—or court you, or however you want to call it."

She grinned and kissed him, softly, on the lips. It was different from any of their previous kisses in that it was chaste, and simple; but also a bit better, because it was sweeter, and more about loving want than carnal need, and held more promise than any that had come before it.

"Good," Hermione said, "Because I don't know what I would have done if you'd said otherwise."

"Disguised yourself as a gypsy and slept with me while we were both inebriated?" Draco asked. "Oh, wait, you've already done that bit." She laughed, and he could not stop the warm, slightly fuzzy feeling that had taken residence in his stomach. Not that he even wanted to, to be perfectly honest.

Content that he had succeeded his goal, that Hermione was his for an indefinite amount of time, Draco leaned back against the bed, taking the brunette with him so that she lay tucked in his arms, head against his shoulder, body aligned perfectly with his. "You don't have anywhere to go tonight, do you? Or tomorrow, for that matter."

"Nothing at all," she said, nuzzling his neck. "Except for work. But I'm yours for the next twelve hours or so."

"Excellent," he murmured into her hair, ready to close his eyes and fall asleep. However, something stopped him. A stray thought wandered into Draco's mind, and it escaped through his lips before he could stop it. "Wait—I do have one more question."

"Yes?" Hermione said, already sounding sleepy.

"You were a fantastic actress on Halloween. But, if you don't mind me saying, you were an absolutely shitty one this morning."

Her body shook with laughter beside him. "Didn't I tell you, Draco? The mask was a safeguard. When no one knows who you are, you don't have to worry about being caught."

And Draco could not help but think, as Hermione's breathing slowed to the even pace of sleep, that he was bloody grateful she _had_ been caught after all. The blond fell asleep with both the gypsy girl and Hermione Granger in his arms, and for some wonderful, far-flung reason, he was fortunate enough that they were one in the same.

* * *

**A/N:**

Oh my gosh, guys, this has taken so long, I am literally mortified at how long I've kept all (**161!**) of you waiting. It's utterly disgraceful. I'm never doing that again.

Well... I'm still not really happy with how it turned out, and I may put it through a revision at some point, but for now this story is done (my Halloween finishing near New Year's, way to go Gen). I have about ten or fifteen different story ideas jumping around inside my head, but I think I'm going to focus on this really dark one that I'm almost ashamed of writing, it's sort of disturbing and frightening, but the ideas that have popped into my head are absolutely, morbidly fascinating, I can't wait to explore more into them.

And finally, thank you to all my beautiful alerters, favouriters, and of course, my reviewers. Cheers!

I hope everyone had a good holiday and see you in 2013,  
~Gen


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